Infirmary Blues
by Alipeeps
Summary: PostConversion tag dealing with Sheppard's recovery. McKay POV. Shep whump and McKay angst. NOW COMPLETE.
1. The Nature of Friendship

_This is a plot-bunny that had been bugging me for a while but I couldn't decide how I wanted to work it… and then McKayRocks! begged me for a fic and gave me the inspiration for how to approach this story. This one is dedicated to her!_

_It's a Conversion tag dealing with Sheppard's recovery from the retrovirus. Some Sheppard whumpage, of course, and some McKay angst._

_First chapter is pretty much all McKay introspection, more chapters to follow._

_Please read and review – feedback makes me write faster :)

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He lays there so still. So quiet. Beckett's got him drugged up to the eyeballs, of course. There's no need for him to be awake through this. Then there's the small matter of him possibly wigging out and attacking half the infirmary staff too. Cause wouldn't that just be the perfect ending to a perfectly crappy few days?

As I sit here beside his bed I can't help but think back to the conversation we had just a few short hours ago. The one where Elizabeth told us it was time to say goodbye. Huh. Say goodbye. How the hell do you say goodbye to your best friend? I'd asked her at the time, "Are we really there?" I couldn't believe we'd come to that point, couldn't accept that we were going to lose him. I still can't believe it now. Looking back on that moment, on all that's gone on these past couple of days, it almost doesn't seem real. I can't quite believe how close we came to really losing him.

The Pegasus galaxy is a dangerous place. And Lt Colonel John Sheppard seems to have an incredible talent for running into trouble no matter where he goes. Right from the moment we stepped through the stargate, from the very moment the city of Atlantis awoke around us, our lives have been in danger. The threat is always there. If it's not the Wraith, it's the Genii. If it's not the Genii, it's a bunch of murderous convicts. If it's not convicts, it's radiation or an AI computer virus or a voracious energy being or a life-sucking bug or a malfunctioning drive pod… or a goddamn retrovirus.

And we've lost people. We've lost a lot of people. Soldiers, scientists, people I've known well, people I haven't. Colleagues. But I've never lost a friend. I don't have a lot of friends.

In many ways, we've been incredibly lucky. I want to laugh at that thought. Jeez, it sounds like the kind of dumb, half-assed, blindly optimistic, "it'll all work out in the end" claptrap that Sheppard comes out with. And yet. And yet it's true. For all the dangers we've faced, for all the times we've come close – _this_ damn close – to losing it all, losing everyone, we've somehow muddled through. We've found a way out. By the skin of our teeth, by our wits and by sheer luck, we've survived.

I think that's why this has me so shook up. I think, subconsciously, I'd gotten used to that fact. I'd started to take for granted the fact that we always find a way out. I'd started to believe in Sheppard and his crazy goddamn optimism.

He nearly died. Dead. Gone. Forever. He had hours left. Just hours. And there was nothing any of us could do. Just sit and wait. Wait for the inevitable.

And yet somehow, once again, we'd done it. In the nick of time we'd found a solution. We'd saved the day. Saved him. The Hail Mary to end all goddamn Hail Mary's. Maybe there was something to Sheppard's optimism after all.

But for a while there it had really seemed like…I'd really thought that this was it. I'd had to sit and face the thought of a future without Lt Colonel John Sheppard. It wasn't a nice thought.

I am.. a difficult man. I know that. When you have an intellect like mine there's not much that gets by you and I'm quite aware of what other people think of me and, for the most part, I don't care. I don't let myself care. I've always been this way; it's part of who I am. I'm mostly happier with my own company anyway. And who's to say there isn't a reason why I am this way? Who's to say that social awkwardness isn't simply the price we pay for intellectual genius, hmm? Maybe that's just the way the human brain is designed, the way it's wired up. You can have one or the other but not both. If I were nicer, easier to get along with, then maybe I wouldn't be as smart, wouldn't be able to think as fast, to make the intuitive leaps that have saved us time and time again. If I was friendly and charming, maybe we'd all be dead right now.

People like me don't make friends easily. Just about everyone on this mission left friends and family behind them to come to the Pegasus galaxy. Husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, parents, friends, lovers. I gave my cat to my next-door neighbour. I think I can honestly say that John Sheppard is the first real friend I've ever had. Pathetic isn't it? Truthfully though, it's never really bothered me before. I accepted myself a long time ago, accepted the fact that I'm not a people person, that friends are just not on the cards for somone like me. And I didn't need friends. I had my work. I had science.

And then I come here to a galaxy far, far away – you see what happens when you get friends? Even their dumb jokes get stuck in your brain – and I meet this insane, cocky, funny, charming, stubborn, loyal, ridiculously optimistic air force Major. I came to the Pegasus galaxy to work with ancient technology, to make important discoveries that would change the face of science as we know it. The last thing I was expecting to find was a friend.

I know people look at us and wonder why. Specifically, wonder why the hell he puts up with me. He's everything I am not; friendly where I am stand-offish, relaxed where I am excitable, self-deprecating where I am arrogant. If you looked up polar opposites in the dictionary I'm pretty sure there'd be a picture of us two. Maybe that's even why this friendship works. We argue and we snap at each other and we insult each other. I never even suspected that that's what friendship was about. But, for us, it is. Why are we friends? I've no idea. It just happened. One minute he was throwing me off balance by not being the typical military grunt I've come to expect, by having a brain and actually using it, the next we were giggling like high school kids as he threw me off a balcony.

Once you've got a friend like that, your first ever, real friend, how do you even imagine the world without that person? I'd felt physically sick as Elizabeth had told us to say goodbye and I think she saw that on my face, in my eyes. I've never been so relieved to hear Carson's voice over the radio, to find that we'd done it again, come up with a crazy plan to save the day.

And now I sit here, in the darkened infirmary, watching over my friend. I don't even know why I'm here. It's not like he's going anywhere. But he nearly did. He so very nearly did.

Carson tells us the stem cell treatment is working, is reversing the damage done by the retrovirus. But it's gonna take time. Sheppard looks… looks so different. His eyes are closed – those freaky, yellow insect eyes – but his skin is still blue. Blue and scaly and ridged and hard. Little spines of exoskeleton up the sides of his neck, his face. His hands lie limply on the blankets of his infirmary bed, withered and scaled and clawed. So much of the John Sheppard I know has been taken by the retrovirus. All I can do now is wait.. wait for Carson's treatment to bring him back to us. Bring him back to me.

I nearly lost my friend today.

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_TBC…_


	2. Waiting for a Sign

_Wow. Two chapters in two days. This plot bunny won't leave me alone :)_

_Lots more Rodney introspection in this chappy and just a bit more action too.. we're starting to see some progress in the infirmary._

_Please do review and give me your thoughts...

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It's been three days.

He's still unconscious. Still drugged. Three whole days and Carson is keeping him in the equivalent of a medically-induced coma. Not for much longer though. Beckett says he's going to let him wake up. Check on his progress. Specifically his cognitive process.

Physically he's improving. Slowly, but definitely improving. The skin on his face is gradually softening, turning back to a more normal colour. The freaky little ridges and bumps are smoothing out. He's still blue. But not _as_ blue. From a scientific point of view – in as much as medicine can ever be considered a science – it's rather fascinating how his recovery seems to be proceeding in a precise reversal of his original metamorphosis. The scary, self-healing wound on his right arm that started this whole mess was ground zero for his transformation and the ever-increasing physical changes had seemed to spread outwards from that point, his right hand turning blue and ridged even as the cellular alteration had crept upwards, spreading blue colouration up the right side of his neck. And now I sit here and watch the entire transformation in reverse, the blue, hardening skin fading slowly from his forehead, his cheekbones, from his lips.

His eyes were one of the last things to change, turning yellow and slitted. By rights, based on the evidence before me, they should have been one of the first things to reverse their alteration. But he's been unconscious for three days. So I can't see his eyes. And I'm afraid to lift his lids and check for myself. I'm afraid to find out I'm wrong. Carson says he'll wake up soon. How is it that I'm both terrified and desperate to see his eyes open? To see if they're still yellow.

He is motionless in the infirmary bed, his muscles relaxed, his breathing slow and even. His head is propped up on two pillows, his perennially messy shock of hair dark against the pristine white of the infirmary cotton. He looks.. peaceful. I wonder absently what would have happened to that tousled hair if we hadn't saved him, hadn't been able to reverse his transformation. How would the virus have progressed? What would he have become, in the end?

My imagination is far too good and it throws up all sorts of scenarios for me to consider. I'm starting to freak myself out and I try to switch those thoughts off, turn my mind to some other subject. My gaze falls on Sheppard's hands and provides me with an immediate distraction. Sheppard is restrained. Thick fabric cuffs wrapped around his thin wrists, lashing them firmly to the sturdy metal frame of the bed. Just in case, Carson says. Just in case. The sight brings to mind a vivid image of Sheppard lying fully-dressed on an infirmary bed, wires from a heart monitor snaking under the open collar of his shirt, these same thick, black restraints – or some just like them – pinning his arms to the guard rails. Was that really just a few days ago? Just a matter of a mere 70-odd hours since he had attacked Elizabeth, run amok through the city and taken out an entire security detail?

Carson had drugged him then too, keeping him in a medically-induced coma for fear he would tear through the restraints if he awoke. By that point it was all we could do. All we could do to protect him from himself.. and protect ourselves from him. The John Sheppard we knew had been all but gone.. and if we hadn't have found a solution, found the way to cure him, he would have been lost to us forever. He never would have awoken from that coma. He would have simply continued to change, to become something else.. a creature, something to be feared. Destroyed. I feel physically sick as I think about the fact that we would have had to kill him. It wouldn't have been Sheppard anymore, intellectually I know that. But how do you switch off emotion? How do you try and forget that the dangerous, vicious creature before you used to be someone you knew. Used to be a friend. How do you put that friend down like a rabid dog? I whisper a prayer of thanks to a god I don't believe in that it didn't come to that. That we got him back.

I've been sitting here for hours. I've lost track of how long. I've spent a lot of time in the infirmary over the past couple of days. Ronon and Teyla have too. And Elizabeth. Even Caldwell. Probably most of the expedition has popped in here at least once or twice to say hi to the Colonel. Doesn't matter that he doesn't know we're there. We seem to have established a kind of unwritten schedule so that Sheppard is never alone. Ronon or Teyla or me. Or Elizabeth. Someone is always here with him. And Carson. I don't think Carson has left the infirmary for more than a couple of hours at a time over the past three days. I think he's taken to sleeping in his office. What little sleep he gets. He worked himself into the ground trying to find a cure for Sheppard. And when we finally did get the all-important eggs, he and his team worked flat-out to create their gene therapy, huddling over their cauldrons in a race against time to brew up their magic potion before it was too late. Before Sheppard was too far gone to be brought back. Since then he's been a constant presence, monitoring the Colonel's slow recovery, making sure the treatment is working. He doesn't say it but I can see in his eyes that he feels guilty. This retrovirus was his baby, his little Frankenstein's monster. Granted, it was never meant to be used, was certainly never meant to end up in Colonel Sheppard's bloodstream. But things have an unsettling tendency to go wrong here in the Pegasus galaxy.

Doesn't matter that it wasn't Carson's fault, doesn't matter that we don't blame him, that the Colonel doesn't blame him. Carson still feels guilty. See? Self-absorbed as I may seem at times, I'm not entirely without some understanding of the human condition.

I'm distracted from my wandering thoughts by the smallest of sounds from the bed. A faint rustle. I jerk upright from my uncomfortable slouch, my attention focused now on John's unmoving form. Was I imagining it? Had he moved? I turn my head to look for Carson. It's been a few hours since he tapered off the sedation. He'd said Sheppard should be waking up soon. I turn back to the bed in time to see definite movement. Sheppard's hand twitches in its restraint.

"Carson!"

He's there beside me within seconds, leaning over the bed to check on circulation, breathing, god knows what else. Sheppard's breathing changes, his lips parting slightly to suck in a deep breath as he turns his head restlessly on the pillow. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes are moving rapidly.

"Colonel?"

Beckett's voice is soft, almost reluctant to disturb Sheppard. I share his ambivalence. We need him to wake up. Need to know that the treatment is working, that the Sheppard we know is still in there. But what if it isn't? What if we were too late? What if there's nothing left of Sheppard in that blue-skinned body? What if..?

"Colonel Sheppard? Can you hear me, son?"

He shifts restlessly, mumbling something indistinct. Carson looks up at me and I see in his face a reflection of the same hope I feel welling up inside me. That's gotta be a good sign, right? Speech. Higher brain function. That means he's gonna be okay, right?

Sheppard is rousing slowly, his throat working as he swallows convulsively. He twists under the starched white sheets and the motion tugs at the restraints. I see his arms tense, pulling instinctively against the restraints. The muscles bunch under the blue, scaly skin and Carson and I can't help a nervous glance at each other as he strains to break free. The fact that his arms are tied down seems to suddenly register, consciousness returning in a flood as his eyes snap open. I hold my breath for a moment before I force myself to look.

His eyes are unfocused, not really registering Carson's or my presence, but they are normal again. Well, mostly. Well okay, one of them is. But that's okay. That's okay because that makes sense. That's how the virus progressed, his right eye affected first and then the left, and now it's reversing itself. The right eye is still oddly slitted, yellow and reptilian. His left eye is gloriously human, back to it's usual brownish colour, the pupil round and black, exactly as it should be. I can feel a stupid, inane grin spreading across my face. It's working. It's going to work. We're going to get him back.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

He reacts sluggishly to Carson's voice, turning his head towards the sound. His arms still tug reflexively against the restraints, confusion showing on his face as he realises he can't move his arms. He is awake but woozy.

Carson does his doctor thing, shining lights into John's eyes – and I can't help but notice how Shepard cringes away when the light is shone in his right eye, as though that freakish reptilian eye is more sensitive to the light – and keeping up a reassuring murmured commentary, soothing his patient, grounding him in reality.

"It's alright, Colonel. You're in the infirmary. You're going to be just fine..."

He hasn't spoken yet and I'm starting to worry again. Sheppard's infectious optimism aside, I am by nature a pessimist. He doesn't seem to be responsive. My spirits sink again as I begin to fear the worst.

"Colonel? Are you with us, lad?"

Sheppard's eyes blink heavily. That one yellow eye still freaks me out. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. A ridiculous superstition with absolutely no basis in any kind of scientific fact. So why does that cold, reptilian eye makes me feel so uncomfortable? It's no reflection of the soul inside. Assuming Sheppard is still in there. He rolls his head again and those mismatched eyes finally seem to focus.

"Carson?" His voice is weak and raspy, dry and frail and brittle. Three days in a medically-induced coma will do that for you.

It's the most marvellous sound I've heard in ages.

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_TBC..._


	3. Under Sedation

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far – your feedback is much appreciated!_

_I struggled at times to really find McKay's voice in this chapter but hopefully I've got it somewhere close to right._

_Please review and let me know your thoughts...

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Sheppard sleeps a lot.

Carson's got him on what he calls "light sedation". Basically, he sleeps a lot. But he's not completely sedated, not like when he was in the medically-induced coma. He's tired and he's woozy but he seems to sleep mostly normally and he wakes up now and then and is able to eat and drink a little. I guess that's a preferable option to shoving yet another tube into him. I'm sure it'd get his vote if he were ever aware enough to give an opinion on the subject.

I think that's what worries me. I know Carson may lecture me that my doctorate is not in medicine but I know enough – I know more than he thinks. Light sedation. Hunh. Sheppard's not just sedated. He's not just sleepy. When he is awake he's disoriented, barely conscious at times. He can cope with simple instructions – hold a cup to his lips and he'll drink – but he's not really with us. I suspect Carson's got him on what I like to call the "good stuff". And that's what scares me. Because that means... Well. It means that this treatment, this transformation… is it painful for him?

He didn't seem to be in any pain when the retrovirus was changing him.. sure the physical manifestations were freaky and they had to keep loading him up with viral inhibitors just to keep him any kind of lucid. But he never complained of any pain. But then again, this is Colonel John Sheppard we're talking about here. Mr Stoical Endurance himself. The man who indulged in hand-to-hand combat with a ten thousand year old wraith and just shrugged off his injuries as "a couple of cracked ribs". Oh yeah, just a coupla cracked ribs. Nothing, right? What's a fracture or two between friends, eh?

I've had a cracked rib. They _hurt_.

I don't know if it's a military thing or if it's specifically a John Sheppard thing but, whatever, the man would smile and tell you he's "fine" if he were bleeding out of his eyes. Damn foolish if you ask me. Pain is there for a reason. It's the body's way of telling us there is something _wrong_ – see a doctor! But not Colonel Sheppard, no sir. He'd rather suffer in silence.

Is that what he's doing? He's too dopey to talk properly, to really communicate. Is he suffering?

I hate this. I really hate it. I just want my friend back. Is that so much to ask? This whole retrovirus thing has been a nightmare from start to finish and I just want it to be over with now. I want him fixed, back the way he was. I want this to be over and done with and behind us. I want to forget what it was like seeing him slowly change into a monster, I want to forget his growing frustration and the fear he tried so hard to hide. I want to forget that he attacked Elizabeth, took down a security detail without blinking. Most of all I want to forget the blank, empty look in those freaky yellow eyes as we stood outside the iratus bug cave.

It's been five days since Ronon shot him outside that cave. Since we grabbed our belongings and _ran_ for the gate, Sheppard slung limply over Ronon's shoulders, my heart pounding from exertion and from the sudden flush of hope – we'd got the eggs, Carson could save Sheppard.

The exhilaration of that dramatic moment has faded pretty quickly and we were left with.. waiting. Waiting for Carson and his team to brew up their cure, waiting to see if the treatment was going to work, waiting for Sheppard to get better. I'm sick of waiting.

There's a rustling sound from the bed and I can't help looking up hopefully. I expect to find Sheppard just shifting in his sleep but I'm surprised to find his eyes open and seeming to focus on me, his head turned sideways on the pillow. He still looks terrible, washed-out and pale, the blue tinge still slowly fading from his skin, but his eyes – his eyes are gloriously normal. Sleepy and vague and not entirely focused but 100 percent human. Round pupils – oddly dilated and fixed from the happy juice Carson's been pumping into him – and round irises of indeterminate colour. Completely human, completely John Sheppard.

He seems to look right at me and his mouth works for a moment but no sound comes out. I'm so happy that he's awake and seemingly aware that it takes me a moment to realise that he's trying to talk. Idiot. My fingers are suddenly clumsy as I fumble for the cup of water and hold the straw carefully to his lips. He sips slowly, weakly, and the effort seems to tire him. But he smiles woozily when I move the cup away and his voice, though faint and scratchy, works.

"Hey."

I'm vaguely aware that I have a foolish grin on my face but I can't seem to shake it. With any luck Sheppard is so drugged up that he won't remember much of this or what an idiot I'm making of myself.

"Colonel," I try for my usual formality but I can't keep a tremor out of my voice.

His eyes are drooping already. He's been in and out of consciousness since Carson revived him from the medical coma but, other than that first moment where Carson checked his cognitive functions, this is the first time he's really been anywhere close to aware of his surroundings or really tried to communicate. My silly grin fades just a little as I suddenly realise that this is the first time he's spoken to me in days.. about 6 days in fact. As the retrovirus had really taken hold, Sheppard had locked himself away in his quarters, refusing to see anyone. Elizabeth had ventured in there a couple of times – and look how well that turned out.

Since then he's been medicated – apart from the brief hour of consciousness when Carson practically OD'ed him on inhibitors and sent him through the gate in our last-ditch attempt to save his life. I remember the awful anxiety I'd felt as we'd gathered in the gate room, waiting for Sheppard to join us, and how I'd tried so hard to put on a positive, cheerful face for him.. only to find the words dying on my lips as he stared right through me with those cold, dead, bug eyes. He'd been awake and aware and – at least mostly – lucid. But he wasn't the John Sheppard I knew.

He hadn't spoken a word as we stepped through the gate, as we trekked up into the mountains, even when Carson and then Teyla had tried to give him instructions outside the cave. He'd been silent and cold, distant, and it had been hard to know if he was even still taking anything in, comprehending anything that was said to him. The only noise we heard out of him that day was the scream of rage as he burst from the cave, shouldering Ronon aside, only to drop, suddenly and silently, to the ground as the stunner beam hit him square in the back.

I am ridiculously pleased just to hear his voice again.

"You okay?" His voice is slow and sleepy, thick with drugs, his words mumbling and slurred.

I have to bite back a harsh laugh. Absolutely typical. Classic Colonel Sheppard. He's been to hell and back, had to watch his body slowly mutate into god knows what, lost his mind, attacked his friends, been drugged and restrained, loaded with stimulants, shot – twice! – operated on, hooked up to machines and monitors and tubes and pumped full of medication and sedatives.. and he asks me if_ I'm_ alright!

I'm fine. I'm great. I'm just _peachy_.

I'm sitting here feeling pleased that my best friend's eyes aren't yellow and slitted anymore, for god's sake! I feel like I want to punch him. All of the frustration and fear of the last six days and more wells up in me and I feel like I want to shout at the top of my voice, tell him just what I think of his damn heroics and this stupid, pointless martyr complex that makes him put his own safety last, makes him worry about others when he should be concerned about his own stupid hide, makes him think he has to protect everyone else, even if it gets him killed.

On the other hand.. it's so.. so normal, so absolutely John Sheppard, that I feel a laughter bubbling up in me that I strongly suspect is verging on the hysterical. A tiny giggle escapes me before I can clamp down on the hysteria and Sheppard's forehead creases in a befuddled frown.

"McKay..?"

He's struggling to keep his eyes from closing, concern etched on his face.

I swallow and my voice comes out tight and unnatural, an edge of emotion under the forced calm.

"I'm fine. We're all fine. You're the one everyone's worried about.."

Sheppard smiles tiredly and his eyes slide closed as he gives in to the influence of Carson's cocktail of medications, the tension leaving his muscles as he relaxes into the soft, white linen of his infirmary bed.

His voice is barely a whisper. "I'm good."

And for the first time since all of this began, I start to really believe that he is.

Well. He will be.

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_TBC..._


	4. What Friends are For

_This one has been a bit overdue for an update of late. I struggled a bit with where to take this story but I started working on it tonight and the muse was with me and it all just kinda flowed out and here it is._

_Hope you enjoy, as ever please do read and review.

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Colonel Sheppard is getting bored.

It's been a week now. A week since Carson started treatment, since the effects of the retrovirus began to be reversed. Sheppard has slept through most of it, loaded up to the gills with the very best Atlantis has to offer in the way of analgesics, sedatives, immuno-suppressants, benzodiazepines and anti-emetics. You name it, it's been shoved down an IV tube into Colonel John Sheppard's blood stream. He was a model patient while he was doped up to the eyeballs. Now his sedation has been dialled down it's a whole different story.

Colonel John Sheppard, as it turns out, doesn't like being cooped up in the infirmary. He doesn't like having nothing to do, he doesn't like not feeling well, and he doesn't like wearing scrubs. He doesn't like IVs, catheters, painkillers, medication in general, doctors, nursing staff, being told what to do, infirmary food or me. He especially doesn't like catheters.

You would have thought Sheppard would have come to accept this sort of thing by now, the amount of time he's spent in this infirmary, but no. When it comes to being ill, Colonel Sheppard is a five year old child. A sulky five year old child. I hate kids.

Okay, so perhaps I have not been the most supportive of friends. Certainly answering his complaints by telling him how he very nearly died and that he should think himself lucky didn't go down so well. Neither did my observation that he should be glad of the opportunity to laze about and flirt with the nurses. Actually, that one was overheard by the head of Carson's nursing team and got me banned from the infirmary for several hours. Well, I can't help it. I'm no good in these kinds of situations. I get nervous. I say the wrong thing. I missed the classes on sympathetic support and hand-holding at friendship school, okay? Anyway, he mocks _me_ when I'm sick.

Truth be told, Sheppard's a little hard to be around right now. Wanna know how crappy a friend I really am? I was kinda glad when Nurse Tellerman bounced me. Nice, huh? I've spent the better part of a week sitting by my friend's bedside, hoping against hope that he would wake up and be fine and be back to normal – and, now that he is awake, I'm finding excuses not to be around him. Certainly I have work to do; that's not an excuse. Well, okay, it is an excuse but it's a good one. The work doesn't stop piling up just because your friend is sick. The wraith threat doesn't just go away because the ranking military officer has turned into a bug. But somehow it was okay to let the work wait, to let it pile up, while Sheppard was blue-skinned and comatose. So how come suddenly now I'm making such a big deal about having to tend to my other responsibilities?

Of course, he's not back to normal yet. Maybe that's part of the problem. Sure, yeah, there's the physical thing.. he's still got blue patches, not so many of them visible anymore, though he keeps his right hand under the blankets most of the time. It's more than that though. Sheppard has been an infirmary patient plenty of times before and yeah, he's always eager to get out of there as soon as he can. But this is different. He's different. He's… moody. He snaps at the nurses, at Carson, at me. He complains. Yes, Colonel John Sheppard, the man who has "I'm fine" tattooed on his eyelids, complains.

I just wanted my friend back. It was a simple enough request. And now I've got him back but he's wrong, he's different. He's… changed.

I guess we all kinda got so focused on the physical changes, on what the retrovirus did to his body, that we never stopped to think about what other effects it might have… the effects this experience would have on Sheppard. From things he's said I know he remembers a lot of what went on, even the stuff while he wasn't really lucid. He remembered Ronon shooting him. I think he remembers a lot more than that and I think it's eating him up inside. And I have no idea what to do about that. Sheppard's not one for talking. Actually, let's be more specific. He's not one for talking about _himself_. Any other subject and yeah, you can't get him to shut up. Especially when you're trying to work and he's bored and thinks it's amusing to bug you. Okay, poor choice of words, considering..

But talking about himself? No. Not Colonel Sheppard. I think I can confidently say I'm his best friend on this expedition and I really don't know any more about him than a raw recruit fresh off the Daedalus. Well, maybe a little bit, some inklings of information that I've picked up along the way from random comments, little hints here and there. But nothing concrete. I've never really stopped to think about it before but I don't even know where he's from. It's a sobering thought. I've told him probably my whole life story by now – everything from my cat's name to why I wasn't allowed to have a dog and why I gave up piano lessons. I've even mentioned Jeannie to him once or twice. And I was so damn wrapped up in talking about my favourite subject – me – that I never even noticed that he didn't reciprocate, didn't tell me about his pets or his family or where he grew up. Dammit, sometimes McKay, for a genius you're real darn stupid.

The thing is, I don't know what to do about any of this. I don't know if there's anything I _can_ do about this. If Sheppard is bottling things up then I'm probably not the best person to talk to anyway. Did I mention the not good at hand-holding stuff?

But he needs to talk to someone. Because something is definitely wrong. And because I want my friend back – 100 percent back, the way he was. Even down to never telling me anything about himself, if that's the way he wants it.

When I finally pluck up courage to return to the infirmary, I'm greeted by a scene of absolute chaos. The action is all centred around Sheppard's little corner of the infirmary where his bed is suspiciously empty and a small knot of people is clustered around it. Actually no, what they are gathered around is not the bed but something beside the bed… something on the _floor_ beside the bed.

Ah. Escape attempt.

I get close enough to see through the collection of nurses and doctors – what is the collective noun for medical staff anyway? A diagnosis of doctors? A naughty of nurses? I'm gonna get kicked out again.. – and find Sheppard slumped on the floor, managing the impressive feat of looking at once somewhat dazed and incredibly pissed off. It would appear I've arrived within mere moments of the attempted jailbreak. To my professional eye, it looks like he got ooh, all of half a metre from the bed before his legs gave out on him. He's lying on his side on the floor, looking like he's trying to work up the strength to get back up again on his own. I wouldn't give him great odds but you never know.. the man can out-stubborn a mule.

His collection of medical professionals is trying to get him back into bed but Sheppard is not playing ball. A nurse reaches for his right arm to try and help lift him up and he snatches it from her grasp, pulling it behind his back and holding it there. His scrubs top has ridden up a little during his adventure and I catch a glimpse of blue tinted skin across his midriff. It occurs to me that he's not just fighting off the unwanted help here; he's hiding. He doesn't want them to see, to look at his blue, scaly hand.

"What's going on here?"

I know that tone of voice well enough to stand clear as Carson comes striding out of his office, cutting a path through the hovering group of his staff to gaze down upon his recalcitrant patient.

"Colonel, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Leave me alone." Sheppard's face bears an unaccustomed scowl, one I've gotten to know quite well over the last couple of days, and he's struggling to get a hand under him and lift his torso from the floor. He ignores the helpful hands trying to offer him support. Carson, give him his due, assesses the situation instantly, taking in the Colonel's obvious discomfort and the milling group of staff all getting in each other's way.

"Alright, that's enough. Can we clear everybody out of here now, please. Thank you for your help, ladies and gents. I'll deal with this."

I've often wondered how Carson commands such immediate, devoted obedience from his staff. To the best of my experience, he never even yells at them and yet they jump to his slightest command. Why can't I get my teams to show the proper respect like that? It's gotta be drugs. Yeah, he's got them all on something to keep them in line.

"Rodney."

"Yes?" Carson's voice interrupts my train of thought and I can't help being a little startled, my voice cracking like a naughty schoolboy who's been caught out doing something he shouldn't. Dammit. I favour Carson with a glare, just in case he's thinking of commenting, but he's not looking at me, his attention is on the Colonel.

Oh right, Colonel Sheppard. On the floor. Another glorious bid for freedom ended in failure.

"Can you help me out here, please?"

"What? Why me?"

It was an instinctive response really, I didn't actually mean it and Carson's look says more than words ever could. Sometimes being a friend is a pain in the ass.

Sheppard's not by any means happy but he's slightly more willing to accept help from two friends than from an army of concerned nurses and doctors. A sharp word or two from Carson puts an end to him flinching away when we try to grab hold of him and, between the two of us, we get him onto his feet. He's pale and sweating by the time we get him upright, his legs trembling as we bear his weight between us and guide him back to the bed. He lets us lift him enough to get his butt onto the mattress and then shakes off our hands, settling back onto the bed with a shaky sigh and a mutinous expression. He knows he's in for a lecture from Beckett.

Carson doesn't waste any time. "Colonel, I agreed to remove your catheter on the condition that you would wait for a nurse and a wheelchair when you wanted to use the bathroom!"

I fight the temptation to put my hands over my ears. I really don't want to be involved in any conversation about catheters and the Colonel's urinary habits. I can already feel a queasy grimace spreading across my face. To distract myself from this new level of friendship hell, I pick up Sheppard's chart from the end of the bed and glance over it. As well as having his staff drugged to obedience, Carson seems to have developed psychic powers because without even looking, without breaking stride in his lecture to Sheppard on respecting medical instructions because they're given for a _reason_, he reaches out and snatches the chart from my hands.

But not before I've seen the Colonel's meds chart. I look up in surprise but Carson's psychic powers apparently don't extend to detecting that sort of thing because he blithely ignores me in favour of examining Sheppard's left arm, tutting his disapproval over the trickle of blood where the Colonel has pulled out his IV.

Sertraline. Carson's giving him Sertraline. He's got him on anti-depressants.

For a moment I feel a ridiculous sense of possessiveness, a fit of pique that borders on childishness – he's _my_ friend and _I'm _the one who's supposed to notice he's not happy! – but that's quickly smothered by a sense of overwhelming relief that Carson knows. Well, thinking about it, how could he not? No matter my opinion of medicine as a science, Carson is a damn good doctor. He'd have to be an idiot not to have noticed the changes in Sheppard's behaviour.

I watch the two of them, Carson talking, Sheppard pretending to ignore him, and I can see the concern under Carson's frustration. Sheppard looks tired and ill. He's too thin, the scrubs hanging from his skinny frame. He'd pretty much stopped eating as the retrovirus took hold – and that thought brings all sorts of other awful considerations to mind, such as what he would have started doing for sustenance as the disease progressed, considering what the iratus bugs think of as a tasty meal – and spending the better part of a week essentially comatose hadn't done much to improve things in that area. He hadn't had the weight to lose and whereas before he had looked thin but healthy, he now looks gaunt.

Sheppard is refusing to look at Carson by the time he winds up his lecture, the Colonel sporting a brand new IV and apparently settling in for a full-blown sulk, and Carson sighs as he replaces Sheppard's chart at the end of the bed. The look he gives me before he heads back to his office states quite clearly that he knows what I saw and I am forced revise my opinion of his psychic abilities. That look also says what he expects me to do about it and I can't help but give a bit of a sigh as I pull up the uncomfortable, visitors' chair where I've spent so much of the past week. Sheppard won't look at me either, keeping his head averted and his eyes stubbornly shut even though it's obvious he's not asleep, but that's okay. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just gonna stick around and keep him company whether he wants me to or not.

That's what friends are for, right?

* * *

_TBC…_


	5. Patience is a Virtue

_Woo! Finally an update! So sorry for the long wait. One more chapter and this puppy should be wrapped up. I struggled again with this chapter - trying to find the voices and make the characters actions - and reactions - believable. I hope I've succeeded._

_All thoughts and feedback welcome._

* * *

I miss arguing.

Isn't that ridiculous? Sheppard has got to be the most infuriating person I have ever met; he has an innate ability to wind me up like no-one else I've ever known and it drives me crazy.. and I miss it.

The Sheppard I know is a smart mouth – sometimes too darn smart for his own good. He answers back, he teases people, he makes light of things – even in the most inappropriate of circumstances. It gets him – and us – into trouble all the time. The Sheppard lying listlessly in the infirmary doesn't do any of that. This Sheppard is sullen and moody and withdrawn. He doesn't answer back, in fact he barely talks at all. He just sulks. It's getting really old, really fast.

He still sleeps a lot and I'm starting to worry that it's not because of his medication or because of his continuing, gradual physical recovery or even because he feels tired. He's escaping. Avoiding. Sleeping is preferable to being awake, to having to deal with people and their demands, their expectations, however well-meaning. I know from the looks Carson's been shooting me during his regular checks on the Colonel that he shares my concern. And that worries me even more. Sheppard is depressed and, after everything we've been through, all the close shaves we've had, I've never seen him like this. He usually bounces right back from near death and disaster – it's just what he does. I've come to rely on it. And I've no idea what to do about the fact that he isn't just bouncing back. I can disassemble and repair a naquadah generator blindfolded and with one hand behind my back but I've no idea how to fix this.

I've spent a lot of time over the past few days sitting here beside Sheppard's bed. He pretty much ignores me most of the time but I am a man of many talents and I can certainly out-stubborn one depressed, effectively immobile, Air Force pilot. That said, my patience for this pity party is rapidly running out. I'm really not good at the whole sympathetic, supportive part of the whole friendship thing – besides, that's just not what Sheppard and I do. It's not how this friendship works. Here's how it works: he bugs me and I belittle him. He makes me laugh and I tell him he's an imbecile. He surprises me and I make him grin. If I believed in any of that eastern mysticism mumbo-jumbo that's so en vogue these days, I'd say it was a whole yin-yang kind of thing we have going. Had going. Dammit. This sucks.

Physically, he's doing well. The skin discolouration is still slowly fading and even his right hand, from the brief glimpses I've managed to get of it – usually when Carson downright forces Sheppard to bring it out of hiding so he can check on it – is improving, looking gradually less ridged and scaled and blue. He's still weak but I'm guessing that the slow recovery, the baseline genetic changes induced by Carson's treatment, are pretty taxing on the constitution.. and he's not helping himself either. He's yet to regain the weight he lost during his transformation and his appetite is practically non-existent. There have been days where Carson has had to resort to dire threats to get him to eat at all.

In a week and a half, Carson's gene treatment has almost completely reversed the physical damage done by the retrovirus. By now Sheppard should be frothing at the mouth to get out of the infirmary; he should be bugging the nurses, aggravating Carson and distracting me from my work with requests to bring him his iPod or his PDA or embroiling me in some wild and crazy scheme for a prison break. Instead, he lies in that infirmary bed, unmoving for hours at a time, rarely responding when spoken to, sleeping for half of the day and waking shuddering from nightmares in the middle of the night. Oh yeah, did I not mention the nightmares? According to Carson, they've become a regular occurrence since Sheppard's been off chemical sedation. I can't say it's exactly surprising – I've had more than a few retrovirus nightmares myself of late and I'm not the one that got turned into a bug. But Sheppard won't talk about his nightmares, he won't acknowledge them or anything else that's bothering him and all of this is just eating him up inside. Everyone can see it – and no-one can do a damn thing about it.

Elizabeth visits every day. She sits and talks to Sheppard, updates him on mission reports, tries to provoke a spark of interest by telling him how Caldwell's running things in his absence, pointedly mentioning the Colonel's criticisms of Sheppard's regime, the changes he is already putting in place. Sheppard's not interested, his response monosyllabic at best.

Teyla is racking up the frequent flyer miles in the infirmary too – her tactic seems to be based on silent support. She doesn't bother the Colonel with trivialities, doesn't push him for a response, she just sits with him, sometimes talking seriously in a murmur too low for me to hear but mostly just leaving Sheppard to his thoughts. Sometimes she holds his hand; if he'll let her, if he doesn't pull away from her touch.

Ronon has even less patience than me and his visits are short and to the point. He never sits, just hovers around the bed, his gaze appraising. Sometimes he'll speak to Sheppard, asking him when he's planning on getting out of here. Most times he'll just ask me, "He still sulking?" and be gone again within a couple of minutes. Ronon's not a great one for dwelling on things passed and done with; pick yourself up and move on, that's his motto.

Carson thinks the answer to everything can be found in a test tube or a syringe. He monitors the Colonel's condition, takes blood samples, prescribes anti-depressants along with painkillers and god knows what else. Once or twice he's pushed the suggestion that Sheppard talk to Kate Heightmeyer; if he gets a response at all, it's a muttered refusal or a rude, snappish request to leave him alone. I've suggested to Carson that he shove a few more anti-depressants into Sheppard's IV but the look I got in response held promises of retribution, possibly involving sharp needles, if I didn't keep my clever suggestions to myself. I was quite impressed actually at how complex a concept Carson could convey with nothing more than a glare. Maybe that's how he keeps his staff in line. Realistically I know that anti-depressants don't work overnight and Sheppard's only been on them for a few days and it's gonna take time for us to see an improvement and yadda yadda yadda but I've had enough of waiting and I just want him fixed already. I don't like this new, moody Sheppard; I want _my_ Sheppard back.

I can't imagine what he went through, what it was like for him; how it felt to have your humanity slowly slipping away from you, to feel your body betraying you, slowly changing, turning you into a monster. I can see how that's got to be hard to deal with but the plain truth of the matter is that I'm fed up of waiting for him to get over this. I want things back the way they were; I want to argue and fight, I want the sarcasm and dumb jokes. I just want the old Sheppard back. Yeah, well, I'm selfish that way.

I finally lose patience with all the sulking when Sheppard has a nightmare in the middle of the day. Hearing Carson say that Sheppard is having nightmares is one thing, seeing it in action is another entirely. I've been at Sheppard's bedside for about two hours or so, doing my usual "I'm more stubborn than you" routine, which today consists of sitting with my feet up on the bed, running some figures on my laptop and expounding to an unresponsive Sheppard on my latest theory about zero point energy and the concept of alternative universes. Sheppard is huddled in the bed, the blankets pulled up over his hunched shoulders, his body turned away from me, and I'm not really sure if he's actually sleeping or just deliberately ignoring me. When his breathing hitches suddenly it surprises me enough that I look up from my screen, thinking perhaps I've finally bored him into submission and he is going to say something, even if just "Shut up, McKay".

He shift restlessly in the bed and I sit up straight, lowering my feet to the floor with a frown.

"Sheppard?"

He mutters something indistinct and I can't tell if that was a reply aimed at me or… I stand up, setting the laptop aside, and lean over the bed to peer at his face. His eyes are closed, his face pinched and drawn, frowning. Even as I watch he tosses his head on the pillow, shuddering, gasping sharply for air, and the blanket jerks and falls from his shoulder as his hands twitch restlessly. Dammit. He's not ignoring me. He's dreaming.

For a moment I hover indecisively beside the infirmary bed, not sure what to do for the best; go and get Carson or try and wake Sheppard. He mutters and moans, his movements increasingly restless, and from the jumble of seemingly random syllables I can make out only one distinct word; "No."

I decide to stay.

"Sheppard!"

If he hears me, he gives no sign of it.

"Wake up, Colonel! You're dreaming!"

He twists and jerks, the blankets pulling and tangling around him. His breathing is rapid, panicked. His face is twisted into an expression I had never thought to see on Sheppard's face. Fear. My stomach clenches as I watch him struggle with the demons that plague him. I hate feeling so helpless. I have watched impotently as my best friend succumbed to a frighteningly rapid disease that threatened to strip him of everything that makes him who he is. I have waited with baited breath as he lay still and silent in the infirmary bed, hoping for a sign that he would recover, that we weren't too late. And now I stand here and watch him continue to suffer and there is nothing I can do to help.

"Sheppard!" I'm yelling now, not caring who might hear. Sheppard doesn't hear me. He's beginning to thrash, his legs tangled in the blankets, his arms flailing about as though trying to fight off some invisible attacker. It's getting violent and I'm scared he's going to hurt himself. I lean over the bed and try to hold him still, try to somehow calm him down, get him to snap out of this nightmare. I put my hand on his chest and he shrieks, a wordless howl of terror, his eyes snapping open and his body jerking upright.

The sound startles me and the sudden motion throws me backward, making me stumble and trip over my own feet. I grab hold of the railing on the bed in self-defence and just about manage to hang on and avoid landing on my butt on the infirmary floor.

"Jeez Sheppard, what are you trying to do, kill me?" I can't help my automatic, complaining response and Sheppard's head snaps around, looking at me – almost through me – as though only just registering my presence. He's as white as a sheet and I could swear he's trembling, his chest heaving as he gasps for air.

I frown and wave a hand in front of those slightly glassy eyes. "Hey. You okay?"

Sheppard flinches, still spooked, and glares at me.

I bristle, starting to feel hard done by. This is the thanks I get for all the worrying I've been doing? "Hey, don't give me that look," I snap, glaring right back, "if I hadn't woken you up you'd still be enjoying whatever fun nightmare was going on in that head of yours. By the way, I think you woke up the Athosians on the mainland with that yelling.."

I'm rambling now and I can see Sheppard retreating once again, physically and mentally, flopping back against the pillows with a shaky sigh, his eyes distant, no doubt still seeing whatever it was that had gotten him so freaked out in his dream. I grimace. Dammit, I'm no good at this stuff. I look around a little helplessly, feeling utterly useless, and find my gaze catching that of Carson. He's hovering in his office door, no doubt responding to Sheppard's yell – well, it may not have bothered the Athosians but it certainly woke up most of the infirmary – but he doesn't come any closer. He gives me another one of those significant looks and I heave a sigh. If I'd known friendship entailed this much icky emotional support stuff I might have thought twice about signing up; it's really not my forte.

"Hey." Great opener, McKay. Well done.

Sheppard ignores me. His breathing is calming now and his eyes are closed but I know he's not sleeping. His muscles are tense, his body rigid against the soft mattress. And besides.. you don't just drop back off to sleep after a nightmare that has you screaming your throat out and practically falling out of bed.

"Um… you wanna talk about it?"

Sheppard doesn't bother to open his eyes but, surprisingly, he does answer.

"I'm fine, McKay." His voice is throaty, raw from disuse, and he sounds tired, dispirited.

I huff out a breath, feeling my annoyance grow. Fine. Everything's fine. Sheppard's always fine. I'm struggling to hold back my irritation and then, in a blinding moment of clarity, I wonder why the hell I am even trying? I don't normally bother hiding it when I'm annoyed – because I'm usually annoyed for a damn good reason.. like someone acting like a complete idiot. And right now that's precisely what Sheppard is doing. Being an idiot. To hell with this supportive, sympathetic crap.

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

Sheppard actually opens his eyes at that but I don't care because I've been sitting on this powder keg of fear and concern and annoyance and frustration for about a week and a half now and that last "I'm fine" was a metaphorical lit match.

"You are not fine. You are _anything_ but fine! You nearly _died_, Sheppard! You turned blue and you went crazy and you attacked Elizabeth – for god's sake! – and took down a whole security detail before Ronon shot you!"

I can see his eyes narrowing, anger beginning to flush his too-pale features, but I'm on a roll now, days worth of paralysing fear flooding out of me in a rush of relief that is almost exhilarating.

"You scared the living daylights out of us! You were _this_ close to dying and we thought – I thought – we'd lost you for good! D'you have any idea what that was like for everyone? Elizabeth came and told us to say a last goodbye to you, for god's sake!"

"McKay.."

"Shut up!"

After days of wishing Sheppard would open that smart mouth of his and talk to me, I have no intention right now of letting him speak until I'm done.

"Have you any idea how relieved we were when Carson told us you were gonna make it? That he could fix you? D'you have even the slightest idea of how long he went without sleep to find a cure for you? Of how many people came by to visit you while you were sleeping through his voodoo cure? Elizabeth made a city-wide announcement that you were gonna be ok! Radek hugged Kavanaugh, for crying out loud!"

I can't be sure but I think I see his lips twitch a little at that and somehow, the thought that he is smirking, that he finds this funny, just winds me up even more. Did I mention how Sheppard has a knack for irritating me?

"You've been in a coma for the better part of a week, bits of you are still blue," I see his eyes darken at that, "and you're having nightmares – in the middle of the day!"

"You are _not_ fine!" I yell.

I find myself flushed and breathing heavily, a little surprised at myself for the ferocity of my outburst, and I slowly become aware of the fact that the room has fallen utterly, utterly silent. I cringe and looked down at Sheppard. He's staring up at me with the oddest look on his face, a mixture of frustration, sadness and guilt.. with just a hint of his usual quirky grin trying to push its way through.

I can feel the eyes boring into my back. I sigh. "Everyone's staring at me, aren't they?"

He nods wordlessly and the grin grows a little wider. It's a shaky grin, just a little sick looking, but it's there. I sigh, feeling suddenly exhausted, and pick up my laptop to flop heavily into the chair, dragging a hand across my face. I look up to find Sheppard watching me closely, his head turned on the pillow.

"Hey." His voice is quiet, even a little unsure. "You okay?"

Okay? No, not really. Not even close. "I'm fine," I mutter, just a little pointedly.

That hint of a smile tugs at his lips again and it belatedly occurs to me that this is the first time I've seen him even try to smile in days. I can't hold back the tired grin that spreads across my face in return.

"How are you feeling?" I ask him, not really expecting much of a straight answer.

The tiny smile falters and slips from his face and for a moment my heart sinks but his eyes stay locked on mine and his voice is low, tired and utterly honest as he answers, "Crappy."

* * *

_TBC.._


	6. The Elephant in the Corner

_Finally – the concluding chapter.. bringing us right up to the final scene of the episode. Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing – hope you enjoy the conclusion.

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_

I hate the infirmary.

Sheppard, and I'm sure many others, would probably point out that, for someone who hates the place, I sure seem to spend a lot of time here but that argument is easily rebuffed by simply pointing out that it's usually Sheppard's _fault_ that I'm here – either because one of our gate missions has, once again, met with danger and disaster and caused me some life-threatening injury (and yes, I reserve the right to hold Sheppard responsible for all the bad things that happen to me off-world – he's team leader isn't he? With great power comes great responsibility and all that..) or because I'm hanging around here waiting for Sheppard to recover from some likewise life-threatening condition.

True, I have been known to visit the infirmary now and then on other occasions but you can never be too careful with your health and far better to be on the safe side and get these things checked out before they become a problem. Carson may have scoffed at me complaining about a splinter but seriously, have you ever _seen_ an infected splinter?

Anyway, I hate the infirmary. It's full of sick people, any of whom could, for all I know, be highly contagious. And it's boring. I'm sick of sitting here staring at these walls and watching Sheppard sleep. He still does a lot of that. Carson says the genetic treatment is very taxing on the body or some such. Well, actually, I complained about Carson's voodoo treatment turning Sheppard into a zombie and got treated to a half hour lecture on genetic manipulation, the nature of stem cell therapy and the potential side-effects of various medications; all a lot of mumbo-jumbo to explain why Sheppard doesn't seem to have any energy and has a tendency to doze off in the middle of conversations; sometimes in the middle of a sentence.

Sleepy Sheppard is boring and I hate being bored. From the amount of huffing and puffing and long-suffering glances, I would say that Carson hates me being bored too and is starting to regret appointing me Sheppard's unofficial caretaker. I've tried suggesting some improvements to make the infirmary a bit more entertaining for the inmates, both healthy and not, but all I got in return was a tight-lipped expression that spoke of fraying patience and one of those annoyingly comprehensive looks that manage to seem threatening in a way that shouldn't really be possible for non-verbal communication. I'm pretty sure he was thinking some distinctly un-doctorish thoughts. I'm thinking about emailing him a copy of the Hippocratic Oath, particularly that first bit about doing no harm. Just in case it slips his mind…

So, in the absence of other distractions, I'm left here with my laptop and a comatose Colonel. The seat beside Sheppard's bed is uncomfortable, I'm having to try and type with the laptop balanced awkwardly on my knees and the last time I asked Carson how much longer it was gonna be before Sheppard's cured – or at least well enough to get out of this place – his response was less than charitable. Honestly. I thought doctors were supposed to be all kind and caring and stuff?

Besides, he should be grateful to me; if it wasn't for my impatience Sheppard would still be taking out his miserable mood on all of the infirmary staff. Oh, he's still not happy about being in the infirmary, don't get me wrong, but then Sheppard never is. As soon as he's no longer actively at death's door, as it were, the Colonel starts chafing at the bit to get out of here. Can't say I blame him, really. Like I said, the infirmary is boring. The food's quite good though and if you play on the nurses' sympathies, they can usually be persuaded to bring you seconds. Needless to say, Sheppard has the nurses wrapped round his little finger without even trying. Disgusting. And so unfair – they don't run over to the mess hall and pick me up my favourite foods without me even asking when _I'm_ sick. No, I have to complain to get anything done around here.

The only thing Sheppard is complaining about these days is being stuck in the infirmary. Which is good. It's.. well… normal. In as much as anything about Colonel Sheppard is normal. Everything about the events of the last two weeks has been so… crazy.. so very far from normal, that it's something of a relief to finally feel like things are starting to get back to the way they were. Oh, don't get me wrong, Sheppard's still kinda freaked by everything that happened – whether he admits to it or not – but he's dealing with it. In his usual Sheppard way. So, yeah, not talking about it. We're good at that, Sheppard and me; the whole not talking thing.

Yes, I know I am not exactly the shy and retiring type when it comes to voicing my opinions – well, honestly, somebody's gotta be the voice of reason around here – but I'm not saying we don't – I don't – talk. We just don't talk about… stuff. That's the funny thing about this friendship. We bitch and we moan and we argue.. about the little stuff. Trivialities. Minor annoyances. The big stuff? We never talk about it.. or at least, not in any way that anyone else would ever understand. It's there though, in a smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes, in a casual comment, a vague reference that no-one else would get. Yeah, we don't talk about it. Not in words anyhow. I still don't understand how this friendship works; I just know that it does.

"Hey.." The bed sheets rustle as Sheppard stirs, blinking drowsily as he turns his head to find me, as ever, ensconced in the chair beside his bed.

"Oh, sleeping beauty deigns to grace us with his presence, I see." I gripe just a little ungraciously; wouldn't do to let Sheppard know how pleased I am he's awake again. Did I mention how boring the infirmary is? Sheppard grins lazily.

"You still here, McKay? Dontcha have anything better to do?" His voice is rough, still thick with sleep. Despite all the sleep he's getting, he still looks tired and he's still pale, still too thin. He's eating better now but it's gonna take a while for him to regain the weight he's lost over these past coupla weeks. I hate this.

"Actually, I have plenty of better things to do, thank you very much." I can feel myself flushing a little, aware that Sheppard has caught me in a moment of weakness, and I start to babble, hiding my concern with a well-deserved lecture about the lack of consideration of certain Lt. Colonels. "But someone's gotta keep an eye on you and make sure you don't get yourself into some kind of trouble. Last time you decided to go walkabout without permission, Carson dragged me into helping him lift your sorry ass off the floor and back into bed and you're a damn sight heavier than you look, you know that? I'm sure I pulled something, not that Carson cares. He wouldn't even look at it. You know, just because I am conscious about my health, doesn't mean I make this stuff up. He…"

I falter in my tirade as I realise that Sheppard's grin has been growing wider by the minute. Damn it. He's laughing at me. I determinedly ignore the flush of warmth that spreads through me at that sight, the exhilarating mix of relief and hope at seeing a genuine smile on his face, and favour Sheppard with a scowl.

"By the way, it's incredibly impolite to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. You missed a brilliant repost that entirely negated your argument," I tell him smugly.

He pauses in his attempt to extricate his arms from the tangle of bed sheets and regards me with an expression of sceptical disbelief. "Mm-hmm, I'm sure." He plants his hands on the mattress and pushes, sliding himself up the bed into a more comfortable, half-upright position. He leans back against the partially raised head of the infirmary bed and gives me a look of lofty unconcern.

"You can come up with all the rational arguments in the world, McKay. Nothing is gonna convince me that Catwoman couldn't kick Wonder Woman's butt."

"_What_? Come on! Catwoman has _no_ superpowers! Wonder Woman is an Amazonian priestess.."

"Ah, Colonel Sheppard. Rodney's keeping you awake again, I see. How are you feeling?"

Our highly intellectual debate is abruptly interrupted when Carson shows up to do more of his interminable checks – most of which seem to consist of poking and prodding and shining of lights whilst asking pointless questions – during which Sheppard amuses himself by smirking at me when Carson's not looking. As I said, we're very good at the whole not talking thing.

"So how'm I doing, doc?"

"Yeah, when can he get out of here already? I mean, he looks fine.. he's not even blue anymore.."

Carson sighs heavily at my interruption, his mouth twisting with exasperation. "Rodney.."

"Seriously, doc. I feel fine." This time it's Sheppard who interrupts and Carson's glare expands to encompass the both of us.

"You'll be discharged when I'm good and ready to discharge you, Colonel, and not before!"

"But.." Carson gets a distinctly dangerous gleam in his eye and I suddenly remember that I like my arms just the way they are, without needle-holes, and I wisely stop talking. Hey, genius here, okay?

Carson fiddles with the Colonel's IV, his expression serious as he looks Sheppard in the eye. "Your test results show the treatment has been completely successful, Colonel. No further evidence of the retrovirus in your system and all the damage to your DNA has been reversed. Nonetheless, your body has been through incredible trauma; you need to give it time to recover."

I can see Sheppard's expression darken as Carson's words forcibly remind him of things he's quite happily doing a good job of not thinking about. Damn Beckett for not understanding the rules – in Sheppard's world, if you don't talk about the elephant in the corner, eventually it'll just get up and leave.

I risk life and limb – and a needle-free future - to intervene.

"Well, he should be plenty recovered by now, all he's done for 2 weeks is sleep. I've never seen anyone sleep so much in my whole life. My cat has less naps than he does."

"He needs the rest, Rodney." Carson's voice is as pointed as the look he throws me.

"If all I need is rest, can't I do that in my own quarters?"

Sheppard tries his best to look calm and reasonable but he can't quite hide the hopeful expression on his face. If I were him, I'd be desperate to get out of here too. Not only cos the infirmary's boring but because if there's one thing worse than having a nightmare, it's having a nightmare and waking up to people fussing over you. Sheppard is better than he was – he's stopped with the moodiness and the sulking, almost seems back to his old self – but his laid-back cheerfulness is kinda forced, almost like he's determined to act as if nothing happened, nothing's bothering him, and the air of nonchalance is stretched tight and thin over whatever's going on in that head of his. It's like he's wallpapered over the cracks enough to make it look pretty to the casual observer but those of us who know him can see the pretence.. and can see the mask of unconcern at times stretch so thin as to be almost transparent.

The fact that he's still having nightmares shows just how much this is still bothering him. I can't say I blame him. If his nightmares are anything like mine, I'd be bothered too. I know Carson sees it too but he doesn't seem to understand what Sheppard needs – time. Time to deal with this on his own, alone, without people fussing over him and pushing him to talk about it. I think we've already established that Sheppard doesn't do talking.

Carson's expression is dubious but I can see Sheppard is gaining ground in the argument.

"If he's gonna spend most of his time asleep anyway, he can do that just as well in his own bed," I point out.

"He still needs regular check-ups.." That's a desperate rear-guard action, if ever I saw one. Carson's losing this fight and he knows it.

"Rodney can check up on me."

"Yeah, I… hey, what? I'm not your nursemaid!" It takes a moment for me to process what Sheppard's just signed me up for.

"Well, no. They're a lot prettier than you." Sheppard's grin is deliberately aggravating and I can see a smile tugging at Carson's lips too.

"Oh, that's great," I huff, feeling rightly offended. "Let's all pick on McKay. Two weeks of sitting around this infirmary, watching you un-mutate, and this is the thanks I get!"

Carson is grinning just as broadly as Sheppard now. "Yes, it's been a trying couple of weeks for all of us, Rodney." His pointed glance in my direction leaves me in no doubt that it's not the Colonel's condition that he's referring to. "If I let you leave the infirmary will you promise that you'll take him with you?" Carson sounds almost pleading as he turns back to Sheppard.

"Hey!" This is so unfair.. but Sheppard is nodding sincerely and Carson, with a reluctant sigh, is cutting off the flow on the IV and preparing to remove the port from Sheppard's arm and I realise belatedly that we've won; we're – Sheppard's – getting out of here.

"Hey, Rodney."

"What?" I'm a little preoccupied with the fact that I seem to have been volunteered to be Nurse McKay for the foreseeable future. I don't have time to baby-sit Sheppard; I've got work to do!

"Can you do me a favour?" Sheppard's face is hopeful, almost pleading as he gestures at his white infirmary scrubs. "Grab me some clothes from my quarters?"

It's starting already. Never mind nursemaid, I have been officially appointed Sheppard's dogsbody. I open my mouth to object and, as if he knows what's coming, he gives me a crestfallen look that makes me feel about 5 inches tall. Dammit. He looks like a kicked puppy – and I'm the one who just kicked him. Colonel Sheppard is giving me puppy dog eyes – and it's working. I give a long-suffering sigh of frustration, just to make the point that I am doing this under protest, and run and fetch like a good little dog.

I grab the first two items of clothing I find in Sheppard's room – a shirt and pants tossed carelessly across a chair – and, feeling extremely uncomfortable, grit my teeth and pull open a couple of drawers in search of clean underwear. Remind me again why I ever thought having friends was a good thing? I practically run back to the infirmary, hoping against hope that no-one sees me clutching Colonel Sheppard's boxer shorts.

By the time I get back, Sheppard is IV-free and is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his legs swinging, nodding impatiently as Carson reels off a list of instructions as long as your arm.

"Plenty of rest, Colonel, and absolutely no physical exertion until I clear you for it, d'you understand? If I find out you've been stick fighting with Teyla or running with Ronon…"

"I got it, doc." Sheppard practically snatches the clothes out of my hands, impatience written in every line of his body, and Carson resignedly draws the privacy curtain, raising his voice slightly to continue his lecture through the flimsy barrier.

"I'm going to give the mess hall instructions on your diet – Rodney can collect your food and bring it to you in your room.."

"What am I, his manservant now?" Carson barely breaks his stride as he gives me another one of _those_ looks.

"Lots of fluids and if you feel at all unwell, you're to call me immediately, okay?"

The screen slides back and Sheppard gives Carson a wide smile. "Sure thing, doc."

He looks happy, relaxed, full of relief at being able to get out of the infirmary at last. He's rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled shirt and Carson's face turns sombre as his gaze falls on the last remaining evidence of Sheppard's latest brush with death – the slightly raised, bluish patch of skin on his right arm. Sheppard picks up on the moment of tension and looks down, following Carson's gaze. For a moment we all three of us regard the fading scar in silence.

"It should disappear completely with time," Carson murmurs.

Sheppard nods wordlessly and he suddenly looks less happy, more tired, and more desperate than ever to get out of here.

"Come on. Let's get out of here before Carson changes his mind." I speak and the moment of melancholy is broken. Sheppard grins again and heads for the door, clapping Carson gently on the shoulder as he passes, murmuring, "Thanks, Carson".

"Straight back to your quarters now, Colonel!" He calls his last instructions after us, a mother hen reluctantly letting one of her chicks flee the nest – I wisely decide to keep that little analogy to myself – and Sheppard waves in acknowledgement, not pausing to look back.

Of course, we get to the end of the corridor and Sheppard turns left instead of right.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

"Got something I need to do." Sheppard's reply is light, casual, but I can read the focused determination in his posture.

"But, Beckett said…"

"I'll be five minutes tops – then you can watch me sleep to your heart's content." He gives me that annoying grin again and I have to frown to stop an answering smile from tugging at my lips. I have missed this. However, there's a little thing I'm very fond of called self-preservation. Beckett appointed me Sheppard's keeper and if he wanders off and something happens to him then guess who's gonna get the blame?

I take a chance and break the unspoken rule. "Are you gonna be okay?"

Sheppard's face is serious; we both know I'm not just talking about whatever this little side-trip might be.

He looks at me for a long time and then nods slowly. "Yeah. I will be."

"Okay." That's good enough for me. He grins and sets off down the corridor, leaving me somewhat at a loss for what to do with myself. The last two weeks have consisted pretty much of the infirmary and it feels… strangely odd.. to not be in the infirmary and to have no reason to go back there.

I chew my lip for a moment and decide I might as well go and see what chaos my underlings have made of my lab without my constant and close supervision.

"Hey, McKay!"

I turn back to find Sheppard has paused at the end of the corridor, a hint of a smile on his face that belies the seriousness in his voice.

"Thanks."

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
